


every time i don't, i almost do

by tmylm



Series: it's all me, just don't go [1]
Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Pining, pp3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23789602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmylm/pseuds/tmylm
Summary: Someone asked "would it be cool if u wrote a fic on the gif with kendrick pulling the dude’s shirt", so here it is. Thank you, anon!
Relationships: Chloe Beale/Beca Mitchell
Series: it's all me, just don't go [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745302
Comments: 28
Kudos: 170





	every time i don't, i almost do

**Author's Note:**

> PP3 alternate ending, I guess??
> 
> Title from Taylor Swift's _I Almost Do_.

It happens a lot, this _almost_ thing. It happened for the first time in college, on Beca’s very first day at Barden University. Amidst a buzz of annoyingly vibrant chatter, Beca almost told the girl in the blue dress, the one with the far too chipper voice, just how distractingly stunning her eyes were. She almost told her again in the shower a few days later, too.

At her first—or was it second?—Bellas rehearsals, when soft fingers wrapped delicately around her wrists and helped to guide her through the incredibly simple dance moves she was intentionally _not_ putting any amount of effort into, Beca almost told Chloe how much she liked the scent of her floral perfume as it began to fill her nostrils. (Weird, really, considering floral is _totally_ not Beca’s thing.)

Sophomore year, when Beca officially moved out of the campus dorms and into the Bellas house, the one where she finally felt as though she had found her place. The girls were discussing room assignments, and Beca almost told Chloe she wanted to room with her. She almost did.

The same way as, following their flight to Copenhagen, when Chloe fell asleep with her head resting gently against Beca’s shoulder, then began to blink herself into a wakeful daze just before landing, Beca almost told her just how adorable she looked. She almost told her she has never seen somebody wake to look so effortlessly beautiful, so breathtakingly perfect. Really, she almost did.

Almost, almost, _almost_.

Ten minutes ago, fresh off of her overly elated performance high, when Chloe stood with her arms looped protectively around her middle, watery gaze, bright and familiar, meeting with Beca’s, Beca almost told her something then, too. She almost told her something she has almost told her a hundred times before, but in the end she just… _didn’t_. Chloe’s fallen gaze, the sympathetic smile on her subtly pouted lips, felt like something of a finality to Beca. The way Chloe’s expression wordlessly told her, _“It’s okay, I get it. I always get it,”_ felt like a missed chance, a chance Beca has missed so many times before.

She doesn’t know when, exactly, she is going to run out of chances. But she can feel it, she can feel it falling from her slippery grasp.

Beca is not going to let it pass her by any longer; she can’t.

Perhaps it is the adrenaline still coursing throughout her body from the euphoria of performing for a crowd, her Bellas surrounding her, or perhaps it is the finality in Chloe’s silent stare. Whatever the reason, Beca’s feet carry her with unfamiliar confidence, in search—much like she usually is—of Chloe Beale.

 _I wasn’t actually afraid of the girls hating me for accepting Khaled’s offer,_ she is going to tell her, _I was afraid of accepting because I’m afraid of what it could lead to. I’m scared to leave, to not see your face every single day. I’m scared of being without y—_

Beca stops abruptly in her tracks, gaze widening and heart sinking as she drinks in the sight before her, the sight of Chloe’s arms wrapped around their tour guide’s neck, his lips crashing against those lips Beca’s gaze had drifted to only moments before.

It is like a train wreck, like an excruciating, horrific sight that Beca does not want to look at, but that she can’t even tear her stare from.

By the time they part—Chloe and Chicago—Beca is still staring, still watching with frozen limbs and widened eyes. There is a smile on Chloe’s lips, one that doesn’t quite meet her eyes, but that is distinctly a smile nonetheless. It falls as she straightens up, though, familiar blue eyes drifting toward Beca. Chloe opens her mouth, as if to say something, maybe to explain herself… But Beca cuts her off with a brief shake of her head, and a smile that silently tells her, _“I get it. I always get it, too.”_

* * *

The next time Beca sees Chloe, she is standing at the door of her hotel room. No longer is Beca wearing her sequinned dress and faux leather jacket, dressed to the nines like the professional performer she has just somehow managed to trick everyone into believing she is. Instead, she wears a baggy, oversized sleep shirt, make up removed and hair no longer neatly styled.

Chloe, on the other hand, looks just as she had all night; her black dress hugs her waist perfectly, red waves popping brightly against the backdrop of her black leather jacket. Beca tries her hardest not to stare.

“There you are,” Chloe states with a relieved sigh. Beca notes the way her shoulders seem to drop slightly, and it is as if she is watching the tension leave her body. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Well,” Beca responds with momentarily raised brows. In spite of herself, she steps aside, silently motioning Chloe in. “Looks like you found me.”

It seems to take a second or two for Chloe to take in Beca’s change of clothes. Auburn brows tug slightly, gaze sweeping over Beca’s torso. “You know everyone is, like, partying still, right?” Chloe says, head tilting slightly. Beca is not actively looking at her, though she cannot help but steal glances here and there. The way Chloe’s nose wrinkles is kind of adorable, she has to silently admit. “It’s kind of all for you.”

Lamely, Beca shrugs a shoulder, proceeding to fold her dress to lay neatly down in her suitcase. “I don’t really feel like it.”

Chloe pauses for a brief moment. “Okay… Well,” she begins in her usual cheerful voice, “You were incredible out there, Bec. Seriously, it was like watching a superstar.”

All Beca does is grunt in acknowledgment, continuing to busy herself with halfhearted packing.

Chloe’s repeated hesitance is obvious in response. “Um. Beca, are you okay?”

“Fine,” Beca responds dryly, hands planting against her hips as she straightens her body. Her back is still toward Chloe, though she can hear familiar footsteps approaching.

“You don’t seem fine,” Chloe retorts.

Slowly, Beca drags in her top lip with her bottom teeth, turning on the spot to face Chloe. She notes the look in Chloe’s eyes, the one that tells her she is trying to properly read her. All Beca does is shrug.

“You know, you’re kind of impossible sometimes,” Chloe says through a small yet obviously exasperated sigh.

Again, Beca simply shrugs. She sucks in her cheeks in thought, head shaking gently. “Just leave it, Chlo.”

Despite so many _almosts_ , so many words left unsaid, it is like, somehow, Beca and Chloe are always on the same page. No, they don’t voice as such, but they know each other well enough to know the other’s mind. Beca is willing to bet that Chloe knows exactly what is wrong with her, the same way Beca _knows_ that Chloe knows it.

“You know,” Chloe murmurs, tone a little more defeated this time, “There are two people in this…” She trails off.

“In this what?” Beca questions, words leaving her almost without prior thought.

“Friendship,” Chloe continues cautiously.

It is not fair really, the way the word causes Beca’s heart to sink. Because that is what this is, it’s a friendship. She and Chloe are friends—just friends—they’re nothing more. In spite of everything, of those looks and those desperate, yearning stares, those wordless admissions, all they are is friends. Beca is resigning herself to the fact that that is all they are going to be.

Beca doesn’t intend to say anything more—what more is there to say? Though, apparently her expression betrays her, the way her mouth opens as if to begin reeling off a whole speech, words dying on her tongue, would say otherwise. Chloe sees it, too.

“No,” Chloe says, evidently noting the way Beca has stopped herself short already. “Say it.” Beca stares with knitted brows. “Whatever you were going to say,” Chloe clarifies, “Say it.”

“I…” Beca begins, though just as quickly cuts herself off. Rather than proceed, she instead softly shakes her head, dry chuckle leaving her lips.

“Beca,” Chloe says, feet carrying her forward, until there is barely a gap between them. With Chloe in heels and Beca barefoot, she feels ten times smaller than usual. She stares up at Chloe, blinking through her own silent emotions. Chloe stares expectantly in response. “What are you afraid of?”

The question causes Beca to pause, causes her to swallow thickly. Before seeing Chloe and Chicago together, Beca was ready to pour her heart out, to tell Chloe exactly how she feels, exactly what she is afraid of. She thinks she was going to tell her, anyway. Now, though, with Chloe standing before her, just the two of them with no distractions, Beca suddenly loses access to her voice.

Chloe doesn’t push at first, not with words. She just continues to stare, to scan Beca’s expression, to try to read her mind. Beca notes the way Chloe’s gaze lowers slightly, the way Beca’s lowers, too. She watches as Chloe’s tongue flickers out momentarily between the part in her lips, takes note of her now faded gloss.

“What are you afraid of?” Chloe echoes, voice a little quieter this time.

 _God_ , Beca wants to say, _so many things_. She is afraid of the way her heart has begun to race, of the way her hands have begun to shake. Beca is afraid of how closely Chloe is standing to her, how badly Beca wants nothing more than to close the small gap between them and press her lips to Chloe’s. She is afraid of how much she wants to show her that kissing Chicago was a mistake, and it should’ve been Beca she was kissing all along.

“You’re just so…” She tries instead, tone a little more annoyed than intended. Beca’s lips purse, gaze burning harshly into Chloe’s face.

“I’m just so what?” Chloe questions, evidently taking in the expression, watching the way Beca looks as though she is about to inexplicably explode. She clearly notes Beca’s frustrated groan. “Beca—”

Perhaps it is the adrenaline again, the thing that has Beca stepping forward. Yeah, she decides, that’s it, it’s adrenaline. It is adrenaline that has Beca reaching forward to grasp firmly onto the fabric of Chloe’s dress, that has her stretching up onto her toes and wrapping her other arm around Chloe’s neck. It is adrenaline that has Beca tugging Chloe forward, and she assumes it is adrenaline that has Chloe so easily complying.

Before she even realizes what she is doing, Beca’s hand releases its grasp on Chloe’s dress, arm instead looping around Chloe’s neck, until the feeling of Chloe’s lips crashing against her own causes Beca’s eyes to flutter shut.

Beca has imagined kissing Chloe before. She has imagined small pecks, deep make out sessions. This is certainly no small peck, she realizes as Chloe’s fingers grasp needily at her waist, hastily tugging her body closer. Beca’s lips part to deepen the desperate, long overdue kiss, and she notes the way Chloe’s do the same.

Chloe’s palms curl against Beca’s back, Beca’s arms tightening instinctively around Chloe’s neck, and it is as if neither ever wants to let go.

“You’re so frustrating,” Beca finally murmurs breathlessly against Chloe’s lips, though she has no intention of pulling away. Instead, her tongue slips between the gap in Chloe’s lips, some form of release crashing over her at the feeling of Chloe’s tongue moving expertly against her own. Beca tightens her hold further, while Chloe begins to guide her backward and toward the bed.

Already, Beca finds that she is fighting for breath, that her chest is rising and falling faster as her back softly hits the mattress. Though her arms remain in place, she pulls back to stare upward at Chloe hovered over the top of her, drinks in the darkened look in Chloe’s familiar stare.

“Is that what you wanted to tell me?” Chloe asks, words somewhat breathless already, too. “On stage, you were going to say something. You almost did. Is that it?”

Beca stares. She stares in a way she has stared at Chloe so many times before, drinks in the sight of every pale feature, the familiarity of the bluest eyes staring back at her. In place of a verbal response, Beca lifts her head to push her lips against Chloe’s again, a motion Chloe eagerly reciprocates.

Beca doesn’t know what is happening, not really. She just knows that there are no more almosts; there is no room left for _almost_.


End file.
